


Turn the Stone

by EudociaCovert



Series: The Best Path [15]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brief Spirit Shinanigans, Fever Dreams, Gen, Jet is manipulative, Jet's a loose canon, Protectiveness, Zuko's freaking everyone out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EudociaCovert/pseuds/EudociaCovert
Summary: With enemies everywhere, Jet does everything he possibly can to protect his kids.
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Jet & Longshot (Avatar), Jet & Smellerbee (Avatar), Jet & Zuko (Avatar)
Series: The Best Path [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/258244
Comments: 213
Kudos: 751
Collections: Best of Avatar: The Last Airbender





	1. Guarded

**Author's Note:**

> ATTENTION:
> 
> The upcoming 16th of May is the five year anniversary of when the first part of 'The Best Path' was published. I'm doing a bit of a thing for all the wonderful people who've read over the years at this link:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TBPpromptparty
> 
> Please check it out. Thank all of you, so very very much.

Jet only gets that single moment of soaring relief and then Shi’s eyes are rolling up in his head and he’s dropping like a rock.

Jet catches him on the way down, barely.

Laying him down on the road, as straight as he can, is all instinctive action tainted with the stench of formless memory. His breath hitches, throat caught between the need to call out and the heavy and sudden understanding that Shi can’t answer.

Smellerbee drops to her knees opposite him, placing her ear to Shi’s chest and holding her hand over his slightly parted lips. Her shoulders loosen. That’s when Jet can breathe, can start to think again. Not dead. Not yet. He puts a hand on her shoulder and pushes carefully. She tenses up, head jerking up to look at him. Jet isn’t ready for her gaze, and he feels his face spasm between a reassuring smile, dire sympathy, and the denial trying to scratch its way into his head. She sits back, lets him look.

There isn’t any visible blood or burns. Jet slips his hand between the limp head and the ground; there are no bumps, no wetness. Gently, _quickly_ because death doesn’t always give warning, he slides down Shi’s neck until his hand catching in the fabric of his neckline. Jet shifts himself, leaning over so he’s at a better angle to shove both hands under Shi’s shoulders, then to trail one down his back, following the bumps of his spine. There are no tears in his clothing, nothing which feels wet or blistered, there is no crookedness that shouldn’t be there.

“What happened to him?” the guard yells from his post. Jet leans back onto his heels. His hands feel cold and empty when he moves them away, so he places them on Shi’s forearm and holds on, just tight enough to feel the warmth of him. He looks up at Longshot.

The hat is askew. The red cloth Longshot keeps knotted around his shoulders has bunched up on his arm, probably from the repeated motion of drawing and notching arrows again and again and again. His quiver is, Spirits, is completely empty. He stands in perfect stillness, barely breathing, his dark eyes haunted and fixed on Shi’s lax face. “Longshot,” Jet calls to him. His voice is steady, and he clings to that calm. “Are you injured?”

Longshot shakes his head shallowly, eyes still caught.

“Did you see how Shi got hurt?”

The archer shakes his head again, more adamantly.

“It’s okay. You didn’t miss anything.”

Jet doesn’t know that, but there’s no room to think about how they missed whatever’s wrong. Not when they need that energy to figure out _what is wrong_.

Longshot’s hand twitches and his gaze jerks up to land on something behind Jet. It is as hard to look away from his carefully blank face as it is to let go of Shi.

The square is flooding with men in armored uniforms. They stomp and shout and spread. Jet watches them with a distant kind of alarm. The guard atop the wall nearly falls in his haste to descend from his perch. Someone barks at him to report and words start to tumble out of his mouth.

“When he brings up Shi and Longshot,” Smellerbee murmurs, leaning in close to Jet over Shi’s bod- over Shi. “they’re going to want them to explain.”

It’s one thing too much. Jet can feel all the things he needs to hold onto slipping through his fingers, pulling him in different directions. _Shi needs a healer,_ but _Ba Sing Se needs to know_ , but _the man who said the Avatar was dead got taken away._ He doesn’t know what to address first, too much needs to happen _right now,_ and there’s not enough _right now_.

Jet makes himself choose. Forces himself to stand. He turns and steps into Longshot’s line of sight. “Tell me what they need to know.”

Longshot cracks his mouth open. There’s a stutter of breath, just a rasp of sound, before he frowns. It’s another worry; Longshot doesn’t _like_ talking, but it has been years and years since he just _couldn’t_.

“It’s okay,” Jet lies easily. Now say something true. “Give me what you can, I’ll work it out.”

He whistles for _danger_ immediately. He points at the wall with his chin, then holds a hand up in front of him, scowling as he wiggles his fingers. _Fire._ Then mimes picking a berry off a bush while shaking his head, _no food,_ then makes two more whistles. One for e _nemy is retreating,_ and another for _no clear shot_.

Jet’s been listening to Longshot for the majority of his life, and it doesn’t take long for him to follow the pointers he’s been given, to piece it together. “They’re after the fields.”

Longshot nods.

Jet swallows hard and keeps _everything_ off his face. It’s a familiar tactic. The Fire Nation doesn't take lives cleanly, they take the food, the homes, the hope. That’s what they did to his forest, isn’t it? That’s what they did to his village, back when- It’s what they always do.

His fists are clenched so hard they shake. “Got it.” There’s a twisted comfort buried in his rage. They have more time than he thought.

Hey, Shi,” Smellerbee's voice cuts in, sharp with worry. “Wake up, this is _really_ not a good time-” Longshot and Jet both look to the prone boy. That horrific slackness has left Shi’s face. His brow is furrowed. Relief blooms, and Jet cradles it deep within himself.

“Citizens,” Someone behind him says. Jet jerks, on edge, but he doesn’t look up. “We’re going to need you to come with us.”

“Hey,” he greets them, amicable. Shi’s eyes begin moving behind his eyelids. “The Fire Nation is trying to burn the crops.”

“…I will include your concern in my report. For now, we will escort you to your homes.”

Jet turns, very slowly. His fists are still clenched tight, beginning to ache. Four guards have approached them, lead by a tall man with a broad chest, bark beard, and a piercing stare.

“You will,” he repeats slowly, clearly. “Include it in your _report_.”

The man steps forward, voice lowering. “A curfew has been issued for all Ba Sing Se civilians. Failure to return to your place of dwelling will result in a fine.”

A _fine_. He says it like it means something to him, like it should mean something to Jet.

“The Fire Nation,” he grinds out, voice loud enough to ring through the square. “Is _here_. The rules don’t _matter_ anymore.”

A flinch of anger across the guard’s face, but it is banked quickly. “There is no war in Ba Sing Se. There will _never_ be war in Ba Sing Se. Trust in the institutions of your city, they will keep you safe. The law is for your benefit.”

Jet’s back is turned to the looming wall. He is standing in the shadow if its massive gate and he can feel it, the tatters of the security he’d put his hopes in. The enemy is breathing down their necks, Ba Sing Se is hanging a hand’s breath above the hungry flame, and they still want him to _play_ with them.

Why _should_ he?

There’s no peace here, now. No safety. No future for his kids. And without that, they have no leverage over him, no reward great enough or punishment bad enough to keep him in step with the city’s intricate dance. Nothing about this guard, nothing about the laws, nothing about this city matters anymore.

_The man said the Avatar was dead, and they took him away._

Jet turns away stiffly, crouching down. Sweat has begin to bead on Shi’s forehead and the words _he’s sick_ cross his mind, a new theory, a different worry. He grabs Smellerbee’s shoulder and drags her closer. They bump foreheads briefly, crouched over Shi’s chest. Voice as quiet, as serious as he can make it, he lays out the plan. “Go to Jingua. Ask her where Pao’s Tea Shop is and take them there.”

Smellerbee’s eyes pop wide. “Jet, wait, what are you-”

He tightens his grip. “We’re in danger.” There’s too much he doesn’t know, and no more time to learn. He’s seen so much poison in his own people these last few months. He won’t take any more chances with his kids, not after what he did to them last time. “We need to disappear.”

“We need a healer,” she argues.

“Smellerbee.” Jet wills everything he feels when he looks at her, the tenderness, the bitterness, the awe, the shame, the overwhelming _pride_ , into the way he says her name. “We’re the only people who know what’s happening. To them, the Fire Nation isn’t the threat. To them _we’re the war._ ”

And there is no war in Ba Sing Se.

He watches her as understanding hits, sees the fear in her, the rage, the hurt, the defiance, and how it all contorts, crushes, and folds in the forge of her spirit.

“We can fight.”

“You will survive. That’s an order.”

Her hand comes up, catching him just under his shoulder guard and jerking him in. Their foreheads meet again, and she presses into the touch.

“Don’t leave,” she whispers, fierce. “Don’t you _dare._ ”

“I’m not.” He lets go of her shoulder. No matter how gently he does it, prying her fingers open feels like cutting into his own skin, like lobbing off a chunk of his own body. “But you have to.”

“No.” Firm, horrified. She shakes her head in violent denial. “ _Never_.”

“Shi’s rebels will help you.” Jet’s smile comes on its own, like blood welling in a fresh cut. There’s no stopping it. “You’ll find me. I trust you.” It’s the absolute naked truth, so raw and real it stings to say.

He looks up at Longshot. The line of his lips is tight and unhappy. Jet struggles to find something to tell him but gives it up in the end. They’ve never needed words to work as a bridge between the two of them, anyways. He’s sure Longshot can read everything he needs to on Jet’s face.

Jet looks away, down at Shi. There are so many things left to tell him, but his eyes are still closed. Well, you get what you get. As far as last words go, he supposes they didn’t do too badly. 

He breaths in purposefully, holds, then lets the air seep out of his mouth.

“Stay safe,” he demands, gentle.

It takes effort for Jet to even out his breath, to stand, to step away with a confident gait and his head held high. With squared shoulders and a sullen expression Jet meets the Guard’s glare; he’s gone tight and red while Jet was otherwise occupied. Easily angered. Good.

“You can shove your curfew up your ass,” Jet announces.

There’s a stilling of the air, a wafting incredulity. Jet grins into it, watches the guard’s face get redder.

“The curfew is for your own safety.”

“Is it? _Really?_ ” Jet’s voice is harsh and ringing, and it cuts through the square, pulling attention to him. “To me it seems like you’re willing to let your own people die so that you can pretend you’re safe just a little longer.”

That ripples through all the present guards, causing them to shift on their feet, to mutter under their breaths.

The lead guard’s mouth pinches. “Watch your tongue.”

He has him. He has them all. Every face is turned towards him, watching as he smirks, as he saunters forward. Jet lays his hands on the pommels of his weapons and they all shift closer, postures ready.

“Remember this, when the walls fall.” Jet demands. “Remember how when you had the chance, you did nothing.”

Jet turns to the man next to the guard, who jumps at his attention. “What about you? Are you willing to stand by?” he looks to another guard, further away. “Are _you_ a coward?”

“That’s _enough_ ,” the lead guard barks. “Take him down.”

Jet doesn’t make it easy. He never bares his blades, but he ducks and jabs and kicks and squirms, leading them around the square for a few important minutes. When they finally have him down on his knees, arms wretched behind his back, weapons confiscated, he’s content. Everything will work out, now. Everything that matters.

The guard stalks up to him, teeth clenched, dirt on his uniform and a hand curled around his ribs. “It’s people like you that give newcomers a bad name. Hopefully the Dai Li will teach you some respect.” His expression twists. “Say goodbye to your friends, you won’t be seeing them for a while.”

Jet grins up at him. “What friends?”

The guard jerks around. The spot directly in front of the gate is empty. The Freedom Fighters are long gone.

Jet starts to laugh.

\--

The wagon Jet’s dragged to isn’t very large, but the bed is deep. It sits among several like it at the mouth of the street, half shadowed by looming buildings. Jet is hoisted up by two guards and dumped in, unable to catch himself with his hands bound behind him with rough earthen manacles. It’s a strange feeling, rough stone with no give pressed around his wrists. He twists around, but the two guards have already begun climbing it. One steps on his shoulder, forcing him down flat, and holds him there.

Jet can’t really see where they’re going, not with his head pressed against the rough wood like this. If he cranes his neck down he can see a third guard rounding the front of the wagon. There’s a platform there, lower than the rest of the wagon, with a square hole right in front of it. The man pulls a pillar of earth up through the hole and climbs onto the low platform, settling into a stance. They lurch into movement in response to the steady, rhythmic moves of his earthbending. It catches in the tiny piece of Jet’s mind that isn’t being eaten up by panic. The earthbender’s stance stays low and solid, the way he holds his arms is tightly controlled and close to his body. It isn’t something Jet’s been able to see often, earthbending. Kids with that talent rarely made it into his care; both the Earth and Fire armies were much too interested in them. Those he did meet were seldom trained, and soon left to seek more instruction than his lot could give them.

“We’re not cowards,” one of the guards says. Jet turns his head toward him. He’s tall, frowning, with a furrowed forehead, crouched near. “We’re here to protect.”

“Stop it, Guo,” the man holding Jet down commands.

“I don’t feel very protected right now,” Jet huffs, darkly amused, and begins to squirm away. The man presses his foot down in response, hard enough that Jet hisses out in pain.

“You stop it too.”

“Hey, quit it,” Guo exclaims, alarmed. “He isn’t doing anything.”

“I know his type,” the man warns. “they can’t be reasoned with.”

“Your welcome to _try_ ,” Jet grins. “Go ahead, give me your best argument. Why aren’t you a coward?”

“A coward is someone who runs away,” Guo says with a sense of finality. "I’m fulfilling my duty."

“I would think protecting the walls was your duty.”

“Following orders is my duty.”

Jet barks out a laugh, and no amount of pressure on his shoulder can make him stop.

“ _Spirits,_ would you _stop that_?!”

The foot leaves. Jet flops over onto his back and squirms further towards the front of the wagon, smiling lazily and tracking the rooftops. A flutter of movement tightens his chest, but he thinks he knows where he is which is nice. The sun is setting, the shadows long and air cool, but for a moment Jet can feel the Si Wong sun on his face and shoulders, can see something breaking in Longshot’s gaze.

“Sometimes you’re given bad orders. Doesn’t mean you get out of having to live with the consequences.” Jet turns to look at the guard, expression fading into something solemn. “Be careful, Guo. This is a day you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life.”

Then he pulls his legs in and kicks the earthbender as hard as he can in the back of the knees.

It isn’t pretty. Jet can’t keep track of the crash itself; wood that buckles and splinters, the echoing of snapped planks, the yells, how the wheels wobble and give out, these are all experienced in flashes of keen focus sown among an instinctual panic. He hits the ground hard, so hard his vision whites out, and then he’s not really thinking anything at all.

“Jet.”

He blinks until he can see again. It’s blurry, there’s fuzz stuffed in his skull everything is both too loud and too far away, too important and not worth anything at all. A body lays crumbles at his side. When he turns his head he finds a man standing before him, pale and solemn.

“I’ve seen you before,” Jet tries to say, but the words come out slurred. “You’ve been in my dreams.”

“Get up, Jet,” the man says. “Follow me."

So he does.


	2. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko struggles with his own mind.

Zuko comes awake all at once, to the cracking cold of water hitting his face. His eyes spring open and his muscles tense, but he doesn’t gasp. He’s convinced in that first moment that if he breathes in his lungs will fill with artic water.

But the face level with his, muted in the low light, doesn’t belong to memories of white and ice. She belongs to sand and heat, to underground rooms, the smell of cooking rice, the slide of steel across stone, the feel of a hand in his.

Smellerbee.

He licks the moisture off his lips, eyes drawn down to the waterskin she’s twisting between her hands. “Water?” he asks, his voice a dry rasp.

She presses the skin to his chest. He clutches at it, almost violently, throwing his head back and draining it in moments. There isn’t nearly enough.

When he sags back, he notices the press of cold stone and the warmth of an arm over his shoulders. He cuts his eyes to the right and finds Longshot seated close beside him. They’re crouched in the shadows, leaning against what looks to be a garden wall. There are buildings rising behind the archer, tall ones, candlelight blinking from their many windows.

“Shi,” Smellerbee calls. Her voice is tight and hushed. “I need your help.”

Zuko tosses his head to the left, and finds empty space. He turns back to Smellerbee, alarmed. “Where’s Jet?”

Her jaw tenses. She looks could mean either angry and sad, but there’s something more to the pull of it, and her hands are gentle as they pry the water skin out of his hands. “He’s buying us time.”

“Time, for what?”

“To get you help.”

“Help? I’m-” a cough cuts him off, soft, like he doesn’t have enough air. The arm around his shoulders tightens, pulling him closer to Longshot’s side. “I’m fine.”

Smellerbee doesn’t answer, she just stares.

Zuko scowls, tilts his chin up, and tries not to look like he’s trembling with the effort of holding up his own head. “He’s in _danger_. _”_

“You-” Smellerbee sighs, hard. Oh. That’s the something else, or part of it; she’s exhausted. “Right.” She sets her shoulders and scowls right back at him. “I promise we’re going back for him, but you have to be safe first. Don’t try to fight me on this, the longer we argue the longer Jet’s out there alone.”

Zuko snaps his mouth closed, considering, and then lets his head fall back to rest on the wall.

“Great. We’re going to go knock on a door. I need you to tell me if you recognize the man who opens it.”

“What? Why?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she orders, voice steel. “Focus on staying awake. We’ll take care of everything else, okay, just let us know if we were sent to the right place. Got it?”

“I got it.”

“Okay.” She looks away, nods sharply to Longshot. “Let’s go.”

The arm around his shoulders slips down to grip over his ribs and then Longshot’s standing, pulling him up. Zuko scrambles to get his feet under him, gritting his teeth. It’s easier when Smellerbee slips under his other arm. Then it’s just putting one foot in front of the other as they carry his weight.

They move quick but careful, Smellerbee and Longshot measuring every step before it’s taken, scanning the relatively open area they’re traversing, the mouth of every street they pass, the rise of every roof. Zuko stops focusing on anything beyond moving his feet, first on the gentle slope of the hill, then a steep step up onto a path, then through a gate, and then down a wooden walkway.

Smellerbee slips away and Zuko lists to the side. Logshot grunts and tightens his grip, and Zuko clings back, blinking black spots out of his eyes. He pulls his head up enough to see Smellerbee with one hand raised to knock on a wooden door and the other curled around the hilt of the knife sheathed at the small of her back. He lets his eyes slip closed and breathes slow and deep, and gets ready to move. If they need him, he’ll be ready. He _will_.

Three sharp raps, and they wait.

There’s some noise from inside, and then the door is swinging open.

“May I help you?”

Zuko’s head jerks up.

He knows that voice.

_So well._

Their eye’s meet, and hold. Zuko is immediately crushed by how much he had _missed_ him, how now, when they stand face to face, the loss shifts from a persistent but simple ache to a sharp and complicated thing. There’s so much between them, so much to say, so much that happened, yet everything feels just the same.

“Uncle.”

Everything moves. Smellerbee lets go of her knife, Uncle rushes out to grasp Zuko’s shoulder, and then he’s guiding them out of the night. The door is shutting behind them, Smellerbee’s explaining something while Zuko squints his eyes at the light and tries to stave off a bout of rolling vertigo. A blanket is being yanked from a neatly made bed and placed on the floor and Zuko’s being guided down, and then he’s laying flat, Uncle tucking a second blanket around him. He tries to sit up, but three pairs of hands ease him back down.

A hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up. I’ll bring water. Stay under the covers, you have an intense fever and you need to sweat it out.”

And then he’s out of reach, walking away.

There’s no time to feel the empty space. Smellerbee’s there, leaning in from one side and Longshot from the other, blocking the overbearing light.

“Is he really your Uncle?” Smellerbee asks.

“What? Yes,” Zuko answers before he can think of a reason not to. He frowns, trying to follow her train of thought.

“Do you trust him?”

“…Yes.” He relaxes as understanding hits. “I’ll be safe here. Go get Jet.”

Longshot grips his upper arm and leans in. His eyes are dark and intense, and Zuko can feel that there’s a question here, but he doesn’t know what it is, how to answer. His eyes slip closed and-

\--

Inside a vast and hungry darkness there is a man sitting in a throne room, behind a wall of fire. His clothing is fine, regal. His back is straight, his gaze stern, eyes sharp and his face blank and unmarred.

Someone kneels before him, though kneel may be the wrong word. He is on his knees, but it is some unknown force that holds him there; every piece of him is straining to stand. His clothes are rough, his face a blue and white mask, his hands clasped around a pair of Dao.

The man on the throne leans forward, intrigued. “I feel like I know you. What is your name?” he asks.

The noise that leaks from the mask is not speech. It’s a howl; not like a human, or an animal, but like a desert wind.

The man on the throne leans back, unnerved. “Guards,” he orders. “Take him away.”

They don’t. Instead, when they touch him they crumble to pieces falling past the floor, down into the black. The man on the throne crumbles with them, and it’s only the man with a mask. He stumbles to his feet.

“Help me!”

He turns to the call and sees her, his mother, just like he remembers her but for the fear on her face. He reaches out, but there’s nothing to touch.

The ground falls from beneath him, and then-

A hand around his wrist, a grip so tight he feels his bones creak. The black is hungry, sucking him farther down, but the grip will not relent. He looks up and meets a face contorted in rage.

“Jet? What-”

The emptiness pulls him further down and Jet cries out in pain as he’s forced to his knees, but still he won’t let go.

“Let go,” Zuko pleads. “It will take you too.”

And then it does.

Flying high above, twisting together and apart in elaborate loops, are two dragons. One is red, and the other is blue.

\--

When he wakes a second time it’s to a cool wet rag pressed to his forehead, and Uncle’s worried face. “Good, you’re awake.” He murmurs. “this will help you cool down.”

Zuko pants. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Here’s some clean water to drink.” The sound of sloshing, a hand slipped between his shoulders to help him sit up.

Moisture against his upper lip. He _needs_ it.

He grabs the ladle, drains it all. It isn’t enough. He tosses it aside and reaches for the bucket.

A hand catches his wrist, holds. “Easy, go _slow_ or you might throw it up.”

He wants to fight the grip, _needs_ the water. But it’s Smellerbee.

“What are you still doing here?”

She scoots closer, bringing the bucket with her, raising it to help him drink but fighting his desperation when he goes to fast. “You passed out, we weren’t leaving you alone like that.”

“I’m fine,” he protests as he’s eased back down, shivers wracking his body. “Jet-”

“We’re working on it, stop worrying,” She grouses, setting the empty bucket to the side. “Your Uncle sent for someone who can help track him down.”

At that something finally settles. Zuko breathes out slow and turns back to Uncle. “What’s happening to me?”

Uncle pauses, that sighs. “You should know this is not a natural sickness.”

Smellerbee jerks in place. “What does that mean?”

“I cannot find any physical reason. I do not know the circumstances, but I suspect a decision was made, one so contrary to what my nephew believes about himself he’s now at war within his mind and body.”

Longshot steps forward, mouth crumbled and eyes intense and boring into Zuko’s own.

Zuko coughs and turns away. “Is that bad?”

“I do not know,” Uncle answers, “But I have hope it will work as a metamorphosis. That when you come out of this experience you will be the person you were always meant to be.”

“He _is_ who he was meant to be.” Smellerbee counters, sharp. Longshot kneels beside him, head bent towards his own lap. There’s a sound of fabric tearing.

Uncle smiles at Smellerbee. “That you believe such eases my mind.” He turns his smile down on Zuko. “Rest, now. Fight. It seems we have much to talk about when your fever breaks.”

Zuko lets his eyes slip closed.

\--

When he awakens again, there is something settled over his face. Questing fingers find painted wood, and he knows before he sees. Smellerbee and Longshot are gone, and Uncle is asleep. He stays so as Zuko throws the covers back and stumbles to his feet, out into a small washroom with a mirror. He fumbles at the straps and sheds the mask, looking into his own reflection to find-

\--

He awakes with a strangled yell, lurching up. A breath, two, to calm himself, and then he slumps, eyes closing and fingers raising to brush the edge of his scar. Something brushes his chin, and he holds his wrist up, confused.

There’s a strip of red fabric tied around his wrist.

“Prince Zuko,” Uncle says, voice calm. “Drink this.”

The name shudders through him, familiar and strange, welcome and disconcerting.

Zuko lets his hand drop. There’s a steaming cup held before him. Tea.

He drinks it. The need for water seems to have abated some, and he no longer feels so _weak_. Daylight streams in from an open window.

His uncle is seated at his bedside, watching him.

“It is so good to see you,” he says, soothing and earnest.

Zuko laughs, a tiny, relieved thing. “It is. I’ve missed you Uncle. I’ve missed your advice.”

“You seem to have found a path on your own. I am so proud.”

“Don’t be,” Zuko groans. “Uncle, I’m in _so much trouble_.”

“Tell me everything,” Uncle asks.

And there in the soft light of a new day, Zuko does.


End file.
